


Drop a Dime

by Arsenic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, NCIS
Genre: Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female Friendship, Gen, Post-Civil War (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9690272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Natasha needs somewhere to go.  An old friend has just the place.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meatball42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/gifts).



> Hi treatee! So, I was mad mad mad in love with this particular prompt of yours, and I wish I had time to write a whole epic fic about it, but it's almost midnight and I should have been asleep two hours ago. In any case, hope you enjoy this little snippet, THANK YOU for the idea. (Also, unbeta'ed because of time constraints. Sorry!)

Ziva glances at the "blocked number" flashing on her phone screen and picks up with the opening, "I was wondering if you'd call."

Natasha says, "I know you’re federal law enforcement now."

Ziva rolls her eyes. She's in her own kitchen, there's nobody there to see it. "You know how fond I am of the U.N."

Natasha doesn't say anything, although she draws in a breath, as though she's considering it. Ziva says, "I'll let you know where to go," and ends the call.

She makes her way to the bedroom, picks up one of the burner phones she keeps for situations pretty much just like this, and sends a set of coordinates to an encrypted account that she knows Natasha will have access to, regardless of what tech she is or isn't using at the moment.

Then, because she hasn't used this particular bolt-hole since she actually _was_ full-time Mossad, Ziva grabs her purse and heads down to the garage. They're going to need groceries.

*

Ziva makes it to the townhouse in Centreville a couple of hours later. She lets herself in, sets the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, and does a walkthrough of all three floors. Half the light bulbs are dead, so she goes about replacing them from the pack she made sure to buy along with the food. She turns up the level on the water heater, turns the AC down to where the air will actually circulate, airs out some sheets, and makes the bed on the main floor.

She hasn't got a clue where Natasha's coming from. Could be next door, could be halfway across the planet. Given Natasha's most recent teammates it could, possibly, be another planet. 

Once all the groceries are stowed, Ziva sets about chopping cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions, scraping them all into a bowl and covering them with lemon juice, salt, and pepper. She stores that in the fridge, sets the water to boil for the bulgur and gets to chopping parsley and more tomatoes. She's salting the water when there's a knock on the door.

Ziva pulls her gun from the holster, flicks off the safety, and goes to the door. She checks the peephole, but thankfully it's actually Natasha, so she flicks the safety back on, reholsters the gun, and opens the door, pulling Natasha inside.

Natasha pushes the door closed behind her, and her eyes flicker to the windows—covered in blackout drapes—and the corners of the room. Ziva says, "Hey."

She looks…not _bad_ by any means, but there are bruises underneath her eyes, and her cheekbones are a little sharp. There are scrapes and cuts over her knuckles, a graze along her right ear. 

Natasha smiles wryly and says, "Habit," regarding her clear casing of the place, but doesn't apologize. It's not necessary between them.

Ziva reaches out again and pulls Natasha close. She's neither quick nor insistent, but Natasha comes easily enough. Ziva rubs at her lower back. 

Natasha pulls away first, after long moments, and asks, "Uh. You have some shampoo I could use?"

Ziva smiles. "I put stuff in the bathroom. Through the bedroom over on the right."

Natasha kisses her cheek. "Thanks."

As she's retreating, Ziva says, "I was going to make shakshouka."

"My first child," Natasha says without turning around, "Yours."

*

By the time Natasha reappears in the sweats she clearly managed to find in the drawers, her hair wrapped in a towel, the tabbouleh is in the fridge, and the eggs are almost poached through. Ziva sets out a couple of plates, the salads, a tub of hummus, and pulls the warmed pita from the oven. Natasha sets on it like a particularly hungry bear.

Ziva brings over the pan and divides the eggs, putting three-fourths onto Natasha's plate, and one-fourth onto hers. She asks, "Water?"

Natasha nods, swallowing. "Please. Do we have coffee?"

"I'll put on a pot."

Ziva sets the coffee to brewing, and brings Natasha a glass of water. She eats at a sedate pace even as Natasha is a whirlwind through the offerings. When Natasha seems to have sated herself for the most part, Ziva asks, "Is there anyone else you need to tell where you are?"

Natasha unwinds the towel on her head and sets it on the back of her chair. "Not…not now. Maybe. I won't stay long, though. Just a couple of days to figure out what my plan is, and then I'm out of your hair." She tries a smile and while it's not her best work, if Ziva weren't, well, Ziva, she might be fooled.

Ziva stands, taking the plates to the sink. She pours both of them a mug of coffee, and brings them to the table. After a sip, she says, "You can stay as long as you need."

Natasha takes a sip as well. She swallows a little too hard, but Ziva isn't going to draw attention to it. Natasha asks, "How's your team?"

Ziva considers the question. "Not handling a situation which makes some of us considered international terrorists."

Natasha's laugh is shaky. "Must be pleasant."

"It's a change of pace from my last place of employment, that's for sure."

The following laugh is stronger, but it's also followed by a bitten-off sob. 

Ziva says, "I made decaf."

"Why do you hate me?" Natasha manages to ask, despite the fact that she seems to be pressing her lips together as a last defense against a meltdown.

"And called in sick for tomorrow."

Natasha looks up at that, eyes bright and wet, face dry. Ziva says. "Thought I'd stay the night. I'll make the regular stuff in the morning."

Natasha reaches over and squeezes the hand Ziva has resting on the table. Ziva stands, and kisses the crown of her head. "C'mon. There's a TV in the bedroom. We can find a channel that only plays infomercials and feel better about the fact that we've never chopped our hand off while opening an umbrella."

Natasha's laughter chokes out of her this time, and following it, the actual sobs, harsh and tearing. Ziva pulls her out of the chair and herds her into the bedroom, onto the bed, where she can tuck herself into Ziva and get the worst of it out.

When Natasha's cried herself out, Ziva hands her the box of tissues from the nightstand and keeps watching the television, which she's turned on quietly. Natasha coughs and burrows back into her side, asking, "What the fuck is that thing?"

"A Hurricane Spin Scrubber," Ziva answers knowledgeably, like the answer means fucking anything to anyone.

This time, Natasha's laughter is real.

*

Natasha sleeps for close to ten hours. When she pads out of the bedroom, Ziva gives her a cup of the real stuff, and asks, "Cereal?"

Natasha nods, sitting and communing with the cup of coffee. When Ziva brings her the bowl of Corn Flakes, Natasha says, "Thanks."

Ziva shakes her head. "I owed you one."

"You didn't," Natasha says.

They'll never agree on this point, so Ziva lets it go. If there's one thing they both understand, it's not being able to forgive themselves a whole lifetime of certain decisions. Instead, she says, "I'm glad you called."

"Yeah," Natasha says. "Yeah, me too."


End file.
